_Phew!_ And we are only at the first page. What is one to say of so oppressively perfect a heroine? But “the picture” is _not_ “complete” yet; for in the second page the inventory of her qualities and accomplishments is continued in this thrilling style: “The harp she fingered with unrivalled skill; the piano keys she swept like a whirlwind” (good gracious!), “while she executed on the guitar with no less grace and finish.” We are slightly at a loss to understand whether or not this highly-accomplished young lady performed all these startling feats at once, as the author would seem to imply. The picture of a girl “fingering” the harp with unrivalled skill, “sweeping” the piano-keys “like a whirlwind,” while she “executes” on the guitar “with no less grace and finish” than a whirlwind presumably, is something that certainly possesses the merit of novelty. “Finding that she was already proficient in music, she did not wish to devote further time to painting”—why, we do not know. However, “it’s of no consequence,” as Mr. Toots would say. Blanche goes to Rome and sees the Holy Father, who “was quite affable” to her, she assures us. Here is one of the “Scenes in Many Lands”: “Our Irish tourists” (Blanche and her grandfather, a Mr. O’Rourke) “had already made quite a sojourn in Italy, and to the old gentleman’s astonishment, as he entered the coffee-room with his granddaughter leaning on his arm, both apparently fatigued after a long drive in the suburbs” (we are at a loss to understand whether the writer means by “suburbs” the suburbs of Italy or the suburbs of the coffee-room), “they observed a young man of prepossessing appearance seated at an opposite table, gazing at them very earnestly. His travelling companions were two ladies. One of them, though by no means elderly, might be taken for his mother; the other young and somewhat coquettish in manner—evidently his sister from the striking resemblance she bore him. _All denoted the air of the Parisian._ “‘That gentleman must be going to make our acquaintance,’ said Blanche. ‘He must, I imagine, be dying to know us. All three are looking at us. I know they are French _by the way they drink wine_.’ “The party in question rose to adjourn to their apartments. As they left the room, Frank Mortimer—for such was his name—glanced several times at Blanche. _She, of course, not condescending to notice the supposed curiosity, evaded it._” Artful yet discreet Blanche! Of course she makes his acquaintance in the next page—we have only reached page 6 yet, so that it will be seen events move rapidly—and here is how she makes it: